


Genesis

by TheLastNero



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Dark, Dreams vs. Reality, Hope vs. Despair, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Nightmares, Painting, Suicidal Thoughts, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-18
Updated: 2018-02-18
Packaged: 2019-03-20 23:03:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13727871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLastNero/pseuds/TheLastNero
Summary: In the aftermath of his lover's murder, Harry takes up painting. However, the divide between what is reality and what is fantasy blurs remarkably. Is Tom really dead?





	Genesis

**Author's Note:**

  * For [peixe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/peixe/gifts).



> Please read the tags. There are a lot of possible triggers. This isn't a very happy story (sorry Peixe.)  
> Originally, this was written for a prompt a friend of mine posted on Discord months ago. I started working on this in October, but never got around to finishing it until now after being inspired by some of Chopin's piano. I recommend his Piano Sonata No. 2 Funebre Marche or Mazurka in B minor, Op. 33, No. 4 for mood.

An idea pervaded his dreams. Just when Harry thought it had gone, that it had vanished completely, or he forgot to think of it altogether, the idea would emerge again as if it had never left, burrowing its way deeper into Harry’s psyche. It was like it belonged there and to think any differently would be as unnatural as splitting one’s own soul down the middle.

He told himself it was just an idea.  _ It _ was quite troublesome and to give  _ it _ any more power, the power of a name, of all things, might only encourage  _ it _ . 

It was easy enough to ignore if he occupied his mind with something else, namely his painting. The process of creating an image in his mind and laying its colors to the real world was fulfilling, demanding all the concentration his mind would allow. To think would be directly detrimental to his art-- all Harry needed to do was  _ see _ . His hand would follow.

Before, he had started with a loose sketch, soft graphite spreading across the canvas in fluid motions. Faint shapes began to form, but what of, he could not discern. He didn’t need much foundation for his this work, it seemed.

What he was creating, he did not know, nor did he question it. He didn’t have the thought to. When he painted, he felt as though the very embodiment of serenity itself had possessed him. His head may have been in the clouds, but the brush strokes laid on canvas grounded him, reminding him that he  _ could _ affect the physical world around him. Why craft his own reality in his mind, where it didn’t matter, when he could do it in reality?

He stood silently in front of his easel, brush in hand, fingers painting precise strokes before him. When the light that had flooded through the curtains dimmed, he did not notice. The white light became yellow, then tinted the room orange as the sun set. The covered furniture of Grimmauld Place reflected the same wavelengths of light, as if the sun, now disappearing from the sky, had escaped to swallow all his earthly possessions whole.

It wouldn’t have made any difference to Harry. In the months he had lived at Grimmauld Place, in the months since the police had declared the crime scene clean and his relatives had washed the blood off the walls and repainted the chipped Eminent Bronze _ ,  _ he hadn’t slipped the sheets off the chairs and the sofa and the tables and  _ everything-- _

The stark white of the sheets melted into the background, the growing dust providing a blur, while Harry focused on the foreground’s figure so boldly contrasted in front of him. 

It was becoming a figure. That he knew from the mass of shapes in front of him that were beginning to achieve a form. What form he could not distinguish, but the sheer knowledge that it was becoming  _ something  _ was not only exhilarating, but reassuring.

His hands regained a new purpose that he had never before seen in himself. His paintbrush dipped into black, and he began a new section.

It was a glorious, pure, silky black, so deep that if he had reached forward to inhale the paint fumes, he might have fallen into its depth to drown, and never return to the real world. When Harry found himself leaning forward, lost in the gaze of the abyss laid on canvas, his nose brushed against the paint. He recoiled to find the spot smudged, a lighter black than it had appeared before.

_ No,  _ he thought.  _ That wasn’t black anymore.  _

He rubbed his nose, only staining it further with paint in the process. Sighing, he ran his fingers through his hair. It stuck in every direction, both naturally and due to the hardening of paint along the black strands that had gotten caught in the crossfire of his artistic pursuits.

Not artistic--  _ philosophical _ .  _ Cosmological _ . 

He was not an artist-- to say such a thing would undermine his very efforts and talent. He was an artisan, an artificer, an architect-- a creator. He was a creator of emotion-- of _feeling--_ of _life_ _itself_. When he stared into the abyss, he found something in it stared back at him. 

To stare down at his work, not even half-finished, and to know he was responsible for its existence was  _ amazing  _ and made him wonder if this was life-- not the blustering crowds of people who didn’t care, and the torn-up roads that lead nowhere and everywhere all at once, and the lone figures that reached, and reached, and reached as they tried to touch you and all you held dear, only to dig their nails in once they caught you, and you realise that those weren’t  _ nails _ , but  _ daggers _ .

Harry glared past his painting at the curtains behind his easel, now dark with the shade of the waning crescent peeking through his window. He could barely see his own hands work now, relying on his own sense of what was  _ right  _ that had nestled deep within him. It was not autopilot, but something much more instinctual.

Sighing, he tore himself away from his focus, stalking towards the window that laid beyond it. He grasped each side of the curtain and tore it away from the window, revealing the midnight blue of the sky and the small sliver of light that, while he knew he had been avoiding, he now realised he needed.

He blinked back the drowsiness now falling upon his eyelids to return to his incomplete creation.

The next color on his brush revealed itself a deep, murky blood  _ red--  _ dripping into a wet pool, glossy and shining as it seemingly glistened under Harry’s gaze before sinking deep into the nearby black hole of paint, pulling its surroundings as if it were space itself. He was mesmerized, unable to tear his eyes away as if he too were being pulled in.

He withdrew reluctantly, to return with a somber, not-quite-white-- slightly warmer, flushed as paint could be. His fingers grazed the curves of his hasty sketch, before the brush followed the trail he had so lovingly paved. As the layers piled upon one another, and shadow found its rightful place, Harry began to distinguish his work for what it was more and more as it neared its completion.

The final brushstroke spurred a revelation within Harry, forcing him to drop his brush out of sheer awe. 

The image before him made his blood run cold, his veins shrivel, and his eyes threaten to tear as he blinked once,  _ twice, who knew how many times,  _ not believing what he was seeing.

It was the most beautiful face he had ever seen. As inhuman as it was, it seemed so, very  _ alive--  _ Harry, who had seen more death in his short life than many others could even dream, knew what life was when he saw it-- how easily it could be stolen away from one’s grasp, and splattered across Eminent Bronze and no matter how dutifully it could be cleaned, nor how the perpetrator-- a human, an animal, a  _ disease,  _ or otherwise-- could be deduced, there was no  _ punishing  _ death for its sin, no. There was only acquiesce.

Yet the beauty that he had seen just a mere second ago disappeared in a moment to be replaced by something absolutely hideous. 

He didn’t want to look at it. No longer. Those eyes, so seemingly alive, bore into his own, as if mocking him. It was a perverse display, a parody of the life he so desperately craved yet found so utterly absent now. So utterly… dead, inside and out. 

He couldn’t bear to look at it any longer. He fled the drawing room and retreated, up the stairs, through the hall, past the door, and into his bed. The padding of his bare feet against hardwood, the creaking of the worn maple, and the slam of the door sounded vaguely, but to Harry’s frenzied mind, they were all only echoes of his inner tumult. He buried his head under his pillows, glasses falling to the side, to both deafen and blind himself from the outside world that had so surreptitiously creeped into his own private haven, supposedly safe from such atrocities.

He tried desperately to will it away. It did not exist.

So tired, of life, or of death, he did not notice as the click of a lock never echoed in the darkness of the doorway.

 

* * *

 

 

Tom had been so young. In spirit and body and otherwise. He had always seemed so untouchable to Harry-- like he was somehow above the mortal plain in which they all resided. Like he belonged somewhere else.

The moment Harry did touch him, the world seemed to crash all around him. It was invigorating. Yet Tom did not seem to have fallen in any way from his pedestal above the common man. He had seemingly reached down and grasped Harry by the hand to lift him up to his level to look down upon everyone else. From their position, Harry was able to see just how lonely it was at such a level, realising all that the man must have gone through.

Tom’s eyes, so dark and cold before, almost an inky black, revealed themselves to be a warm chocolate that Harry could have drowned himself in. From far away, he could have never seen the warmth and emotion they held.

They melted Harry’s heart, along with his body and mind as he allowed himself to be seduced. 

It was no issue being vulnerable around Tom. He understood him, his life, his experiences, having come from similar situations. 

For once, he felt at ease and didn’t have to think of what image to present. He didn’t have to think up a brave front, or be the hero, or do as he was told. He was never judged.

Of course, he met such an acceptance with acceptance of his own. He was not perfect, and as he learned more of his partner, he realised the same.

Still, he was so much more…  _ divine _ than any other human being that might have existed on that earth. He could forgive the seedy businessman, the dirty money, the knowing glances, and not quite legal enterprises.

What he could not forgive was the danger it put him in. It brought Tom down from his pedestal and filthied his hands and made him, albeit temporarily,  _ mortal. _

It was only then that one of such elevation could be harmed. He could always return to Harry’s side, but might come back with a scrape or a bruise or a swollen eye, to which Harry would tend and berate Tom for putting himself in such a situation, but would only reinforce with their desperate love-making later on.

He didn’t know what he would have done had something serious happened to Tom. Had they gone to a hospital, he might have been arrested.

Harry knew that whatever might have happened to Tom, he would surely follow, be it prison, out of Britain, anywhere. 

However, it would figure that the one place Tom went, Harry could, of course, not follow. He knew he would never forgive him if he ever chose to sacrifice his own life just to be with him. That was for certain.

Tom, for all his honeyed words and ideas and ideals and plans, would never forgive him if he died. Harry wanted to despise the man for it, for not realising that the pain of being alone after finally,  _ finally  _ climbing that pedestal to be with him would be far worse than just ending it all, but he couldn’t bring himself to dare consider it for more than a moment.

For all Tom’s flaws, Harry didn’t want to think of them. Tom was a  _ God--  _ perfect in every way. He would stay alive for him.

He paid off Tom’s debts and sold off his business so he could live a kushy existence for the rest of his life. He kept their house clean. He took his friend and relative’s phone calls and assured them he was alive, that he just needed time to mourn. Perhaps the rest of his life.

He’d seen Tom’s body, its blood splattered across the drawing room, and the bullet holes in his neck and skull, but a part of him couldn’t begin to believe it had happened. It had been so surreal-- as if he had been watching someone else unlock the front door and enter the townhouse and see the body and that someday, he’d wake up in his bed, and find Tom beside him, and discover it had all been a terrible dream. Tom would notice his expression and question him about it, and he’d tell him, and they’d laugh, and wrap themselves around each other like they always had.

Sometimes, he could hear the faint lingerings of Tom’s voice dust his ears, and breath hot breaths down his spine to make Harry shiver, and remember all the times he had done such a thing before. 

This was a long, long nightmare he kept hoping to wake up from. It wasn’t novel or amusing or symbolic of anything more than his greatest fear, that of which he was already painfully aware of. He longed for the night he would wake up.

He thought the more he slept, the greater his odds were that he might see Tom again, in reality, or his dreams, or whatever was true, or whatever was false. He couldn’t determine the difference anymore. He didn’t know if he wanted to.

He wondered if dying in a dream would wake him up. Surely, it would have to. 

Tom’s guns were still hidden throughout Grimmauld Place. “In case of emergencies,” he had always said. They hadn’t helped him that one night. But that was a true nightmare, wasn’t it? A fantasy that defied logic and would never happen realistically in his waking hours. Tom would never let himself die. He wouldn’t.

But as Harry grasped a pistol in his hand, hoping to shoot and finally force himself to wake up, the possibility that he wasn’t dreaming, that that was reality, loomed over him. 

If he did it, and he did die, Tom would never forgive him. His hand shook until his fingers couldn’t bear to nudge the trigger any longer, and the gun dropped to the floor with a clatter.

He would wait.

 

* * *

 

He had never been a very artistic person. He never had time, in between his failing familial life and sports. In general, he never had much of an eye for aesthetics and couldn’t accurately represent reality if he tried his damndest. While searching around in a closet one day, he found a tray of art supplies that he hadn’t recalled being there before. Maybe he hadn't been looking. Maybe it hadn’t been there at all, and his mind was simply conjuring it into existence in the realm of his dream. Or maybe he had always overlooked it, since he never had an interest in such things.

Harry thought maybe he’d screw around a bit, in order to pass time. That he’d paint something small and horrendous, and it would somehow bring him a small amusement, but then he’d pack away the materials never to touch ever again. He, of course, had been wrong. Somehow, it began to consume him.

He didn’t know what came over him. He had never painted something serious in his life, beyond the small crafts of his childhood that weren’t anything special, or even particularly well-defined in their appearance. They were blobs of color, but to a child, they were everything.

Now, he wished he could have emulated that simplicity, that childlike innocence, and not what he’d created, no, what he’d bred that night like some twisted parasite that only grew larger and larger, tainting all good the canvas may have once held.

His lover had never been a saint, he knew that, but he was no _demon_. Never once did he hurt the one he loved-- he was not lifeless, he was not beyond anyone and _everyone._ Harry could reach him.

But the image imbued in paint on canvas-- it looked so much like the man he loved and still loved to that day, but it was so  _ horribly wrong.  _ Tom, as hideous as his personality sometimes was, was never hideous in body. He did not bleed from his eyes and mouth, nor have skin greyed and gaunt, nor waxy hair unkempt and knotted like that of his painting-- the foul replica of someone irreplaceable.

Tom was above that-- he was above death, above lowly mortal degradation and imperfections, above them all.

Harry decided he would destroy the painting the next morning.

 

* * *

 

He did not dream as he went to sleep. He was awake one minute, then awake the next as if no time had passed at all, but he knew he had slept. He would function another day, or perhaps, another minute-- another hour? Until he woke up, he figured.

Light filtered through the master bedroom slowly, and Harry rubbed his eyes as he woke. The bedspread pooled around his waist as he sat up, the bed giving a slight squeak.

He looked up to find the door open. Odd. He could have sworn he had shut it last night. Back then, he’d always left it open and unlocked in case Tom came home late, as he was known to do as his work demanded, sometimes. Harry didn’t see any point in keeping it open now, in his dreams.

A creeping feeling fell over him and his skin crawled at the familiar thought. He laid his head back against his pillow with a deep sigh, struggling to keep his breathing even. 

As he shut his eyes, however, he could have sworn he felt something brush against his bare arm. Shivering, he decided to ignore it. It was nothing.

Except seconds later, the bed creaked once more and his body was pressed flush to something hard and familiar and all-encompassing. Harry held his breath.

Arms wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer until he was completely surrounded by his partner. It was all too much for Harry, and a sob ripped out of his lips while relief settled over him.

The dream was finally over. He had woken up. 

He might have begun to hyperventilate if Tom hadn’t begun whispering in his ear to pacify him.

“Shhh, it’s okay, Harry, it’s all okay. I’m here. You’re safe. I’m safe.” He stroked the skin of Harry’s hip in soothing circles as his voice lulled Harry into a state of calm. 

They were safe-- both he and Tom.

“No one can touch us.”

No one could touch them, no one could harm them.

“It’s only you and me.”

It’s only them, alone, together-- as it should be.

Harry turned and nuzzled his face into the crook of Tom’s neck, snuggled deeper despite the cold touch of Tom’s skin. Tom had always been a bit cold-blooded, but it soothed the excess heat Harry had always seemed to give off. They had always complimented each other like that. Always meant to be.

Never again would they be seperated. 

Harry took a deep breath, taking in the scent of the cologne Tom always wore that always comforted him so, along with his natural musky scent.

It was remarkably pungent that morning. Maybe Tom hadn’t taken a shower the night before. Must have been another long night. He’d just have to remind his lover to take one this morning, perhaps with  _ him _ .

“Tom?”

“Yes, darling?” His voice was always so velvety smooth, but sounded dry and almost choked up that morning. Was he getting ill?

“I missed you.”

“I miss you.”

Harry opened his eyes.

He met the eyes of Tom, unnaturally red, like crusted blood, like that lining his lips and absent from his cheeks, so, so very similar to the horrid portrait lying in the drawing room, mocking his very existence and Tom’s lack of.

Harry’s heart shuddered and tears laced the corners of his eyes. Tom reached forward and wiped them away with his cold fingertips, bringing his fingers to his mouth to seemingly taste Harry’s despair.

Harry breathed deeply through his nose, before sitting up and out of bed, leaving his lover lying sideways, watching him with those red eyes.

He stepped toward the wardrobe and reached toward the back, his heart racing and hands shaking as he felt for what he was looking for. Tears spilled from where they had been welling in his eyes.

His hand grazed the grip of a pistol.


End file.
